Dreaming in Technicolor Read online

  Praise for Dreaming in Technicolor

  “I love Phoebe—her foibles, honest truths, fun, and laughable antics! And this time, Phoebe’s taking planes, trains, and automobiles—watch out world!”

  —Cindy Martinusen, author of The Salt Garden

  “Ever longed to shop at Harrods or indulge in high tea? Live vicariously through the faboo Phoebe Grant and her pals in this super-fun, romantic romp through England. Like me, you’ll giggle a lot, sigh some, and experience a wild urge to brew some fragrant tea and rent some beautiful chick flick starring Hugh Grant and Emma Thompson!”

  —Lorilee Craker, author of We Should Do This More Often and

  When the Belly Button Pops, the Baby’s Done

  “Phoebe rides again! With her usual humor and slightly-wrinkled style, our plucky heroine finds depth and delight in her relationships with her family, her friends, and her God.”

  —Gayle Roper, author of Winter Winds and Autumn Dreams

  “A witty and charming tale that offers a forgotten truth—journeys can actually be enjoyed.”

  —Denise Hildreth, author of Savannah from Savannah

  and Savannah Comes Undone

  dreaming in technicolor

  Also by Laura Jensen Walker

  Dreaming in Black and White

  Reconstructing Natalie (Available September 2006)

  Nonfiction

  A Kiss Is Still a Kiss

  When the Going Gets Tough, The Tough Get Ice Cream

  Girl Time

  This Old Dump

  Thanks for the Mammogram

  God Rest Ye Grumpy Scroogeymen (With Michael Walker)

  © 2005 by Laura Jensen Walker

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Except as indicated below, Scripture quotations in this book are from HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  The Scripture quoted at the end of chapter 15 is from The New English Bible, © The Delegates of the Oxford University Press and The Syndics of the Cambridge University Press, 1961, 1970.

  Scripture quoted during the York Minster scene in chapter 16 is from the New King James Version © 1979, 1980, 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc., Publishers.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Walker, Laura Jensen.

  Dreaming in technicolor : a Phoebe Grant novel / Laura Jensen Walker.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-8499-4524-0 (trade paper)?

  1. Motion pictures—Appreciation—Fiction. 2. Obituaries—Authorship—Fiction. 3. Overweight women—Fiction. 4. Single women—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3623.A3595D743 2005

  813'.54—dc22

  2005004459

  Printed in the United States of America

  05 06 07 08 09 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

  CONTENTS

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  chapter twenty-four

  Acknowledgments

  For Michael, the love of my life and my fellow Anglophile.

  We’ll always have England . . .

  A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment.

  —Jane Austen,

  Pride and Prejudice

  [chapter one]

  One Kiss Is Worth a Thousand Words

  the time had come, and we both knew it. We were ready. I looked into his Clark Gable eyes as he drew me close and saw the tender love in them, the deep fire of restrained passion.

  I watched his lips—those beautiful, expressive lips—as they slowly drew near.

  I closed my eyes, felt his warm breath, knew the soft touch of his lips on mine.

  Time melted away in the eternity of that kiss. Our first kiss, long awaited. I could almost hear music soar.

  It was Bogie and Bacall, Scarlett and Rhett, Rick and Ilsa, Wesley and Buttercup, Belle and her Beast. Of all the wonderful kisses since the beginning of time, it was one of the best. It was not to be forgotten.

  It was . . . it was definitely not happening.

  I pulled back from my reverie and gazed across the table at my date. And sighed.

  Those lips. Those eyes. That mouth. Those gorgeous Gregory Peck Roman Holiday lips—now closing in on an industrial-sized cinnamon roll.

  I sighed again. I know that old song says a kiss is still a kiss. But when you’re not being kissed at all, who cares what Sam the piano player says?

  “. . . thought we could hit Macy’s first.” Alex Spencer put down his roll and blew on his cappuccino with those wonderful, full lips before taking a sip and giving me a questioning look across the café table.

  “Sounds good.” I gulped my mocha, noticing as I did a trace of foam on his adorable mouth. Is this man ever going to kiss me?

  Alex and I had been dating for three weeks now. Twenty-two days, actually, but who’s counting? And things were going well. Quite well, in fact, considering our love-hate, mistaken-motives history. And the fact Alex was my new boss. And the whole kissing issue, of course—not that I’m obsessing about it or anything.

  But they were going so well that in just a few minutes we were going to cross an important dating threshold: Alex was taking me shopping. In San Francisco. And since we’d never shopped together, I was a trifle nervous.

  What if Alex turned out to be like most men, who loathe women’s favorite sport?

  That’s why I’d already had a long talk with my shopping self and stressed that she behave with decorum and restraint. And she’d agreed to be on her best behavior. Unless we went into a shoe store. Then all bets were off.

  Something you should probably know about me. I’ve had a love affair with shoes ever since I bought my first pair of Candies in high school. And although I’d had a spiritual epiphany of sorts a couple of months ago about scaling back and keeping things simple, that epiphany hadn’t reached all the way down to my feet yet.

  Or to my mouth. Or to my kiss-obsessed brain.

  I was trying, though. I knew that the minute my lips locked with Alex’s, there would be no scaling back. Also that my drooling might stain his leather bomber jacket, which, I might add, fit him extremely well and gave him a rakish, Brandoesque
charm. So in an attempt to keep my smitten self in check, I resumed our favorite sport.

  “Okay, Filmguy, what’s the first Technicolor movie to win an Oscar?”

  He shot me a smug grin as he set down his gooey cinnamon roll.

  “Gone With the Wind, in 1939. The same year of The Wizard of Oz, where they also made use of that innovative color change. But Gone with the Wind swept the Oscars, and the Wizard only won a couple.”

  “Brat.” I stuck out my tongue at him. “Your turn.”

  “Right, then,” he said with that competitive gleam in his eye that I knew and loved.

  Whoops. Did I just say the L-word? No, no. I meant to say like. It’s not the L-word yet. How could it be? We’ve only been dating a few weeks. Every single woman worth her romantic salt knows you can’t say the L-word until he does.

  Note to self: Do not even think the L-word. Otherwise, might blurt out unexpectedly at inopportune time.

  Alex continued with our movie-addict game, seemingly unaware of my romantic inner turmoil. “Okay, Miss Movie Lover, which actress holds the record for the most Academy Award nominations?”

  Now it was my turn for a smug smile. “For years, that honor was held by Miss Katharine Hepburn, with twelve nominations. Meryl Streep bypassed her a few years back. But the great Kate still holds the record for the most Best Actress Oscars—four.”

  “Didn’t she win for Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner with Spencer Tracy?”

  I nodded but was thinking, Spencer . . . the perfect segue. Maybe now I could finally pin Alex down on his background.

  Though not exactly the strong, silent type, my gorgeous date had proved remarkably reserved—evasive, even—in supplying personal information. And I had to admit I was curious.

  I knew he was rich and successful—heir to the Spencer publishing dynasty, no less. He’d been a big corporate muckety-muck before deciding to downscale and become a small-town newspaperman—in my hometown of Barley, California, no less.

  I also knew he’d been raised in England but wasn’t really English. That bit of mystery had slipped out in conversation with my niece. But he’d never mentioned it again.

  I absolutely knew he was a good Christian man—woohoo!—with an athletic build, beautiful dark eyes with killer lashes, and delicious, kissable lips. He was one of the few people I’d ever met who knew more about movies than me. Beyond that . . . well, I just needed to know. And what was the point of being a reporter if I couldn’t ask questions?

  “Speaking of Spencer,” I began innocently, spreading low-fat cream cheese on my bagel. “I’ve been wondering . . . what’s your favorite color? And, uh, when’s your birthday?” Then, quickly—“Oh, and what was your childhood like?”

  His dark eyebrows lifted beneath his curly Jude Law hair. “That’s three questions—none of them relating to movies.”

  “True. But I figure it’s high time I learned a little more about you , Mr. Close to the Vest.” I licked cream cheese from my fingers.“It’s really not fair. You already know all about me—born and raised in Barley, joined the air force, got my journalism degree, worked in Cleveland and now California. But what about you, O corporate man of the world?”

  Alex started to respond, but I interrupted him with a teasing smile. “Wait. Let me guess; you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth to a family of old money in New York. Or Connecticut—which would account for your upper-crust diction. And your grandmother was English, which is why you spent time there growing up.”

  Or maybe it was your whole family, and they own half of the British—

  Alex took another bite of cinnamon roll and wiped icing from his mouth.

  Darn, I’d been hoping to take care of that for him. There can’t be too many calories in one lick, right?

  “. . . was born in a blue-collar area of Pittsburgh, and the spoon was wooden, not silver. My mom cleaned houses, and my father was a steelworker—when he worked, that is.”

  I gaped at him. “But then how did you wind up rich and in England?” My inner Emily Post sighed. You can dress her up, but you can’t take her out. “Sorry. I mean . . .”

  He guffawed. “Don’t apologize. That’s one of the things I really like about you, Phoebe. You just say what you’re thinking. I wish more people would.”

  Really like? I lingered over the first part of his sentence. With apologies to Sally Field, “really like” is just a step away from the Big L!

  He went on, oblivious to my lovestruck trembling. “My father died when I was six. He was drunk and driving.” A bitter note crept into his voice. “Of course he didn’t have insurance, so that left Mom and me practically on the streets.”

  “I’m sorry, Alex.” I reached over and touched his hand. “I had no idea.”

  No wonder we’d had an instant connection—beyond the whole movie thing, I mean. I’d lost my dad in high school.

  Alex shrugged. “That was a lifetime ago—a lifetime I hardly remember. Mom became a live-in housekeeper to a wealthy English family, and when the son and heir came over for a visit, they fell in love.” He smiled. “Quite the scandal, at first, but my stepfather is the kind of man who tends to get his way. Any rate, six months later they were married, and a year after that we moved to England. By that time, I was eleven and my parents had a baby.” He slid me a sly grin. “I believe you know Cordelia.”

  My face flushed. “Don’t remind me.” When I first heard of Cordelia, I’d mistakenly assumed she was his girlfriend and had jumped to foolish conclusions.

  But I was still confused. “If you had a different father, how come your last name’s Spencer?”

  “David Spencer was a far better father to me than my own dad had ever been.” Alex’s eyes darkened. “And a far better husband to my mother. He never once made me feel like an unwanted stepchild. So when he asked if I would like to become his son legally, there wasn’t anything I wanted more. I’ve been a Spencer ever since.”

  Before I could go and get all mushy on him, he added with a grin, “And the Spencer publishing family has been swooping down and buying up struggling newspapers since I came into the fold. There’s even talk they might start buying up entire towns now too.”

  “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”

  “Not in this lifetime, George Bailey.”

  Shortly after Alex moved to our Central California valley town as the new owner and publisher—and therefore, my boss—of the Barley Bulletin, I’d jumped to yet another foolish conclusion. The town was trying to save my beloved Bijou movie house, so we’d been selling theater seats in a desperate fundraising attempt. But even if we’d sold every seat in the house, it still wouldn’t have been enough to save the cherished building from the wrecking ball. Then someone anonymously rode to the rescue with a huge donation, and I assumed it was Alex since he was the richest man in town. To me, that sounded way too much like mean old Mr. Potter from It’s a Wonderful Life. I was sure Alex was going to take over the entire town and turn it into Potterville—uh, Spencerville. So I’d flown into full Jimmy Stewart righteous-indignation mode, accusing Alex of false philanthropic motives.

  I’d had to eat some major crow when it turned out I was wrong. Unfortunately, I’m well acquainted with the taste of crow. Which is why I’ve been trying hard to reform.

  No more jumping to conclusions. No more living in movie fantasies. No more longing meditations on certain newspaper publishers with amazing, kissable lips . . .

  “Hey, are you going to eat that, or just play with it?” He pushed a packet of jelly my way and his voice took on a mock stern tone. “Eat, Phoebe, eat. You’ll need your strength for our shopping marathon.”

  That’s another thing I love about you—uh, I mean like, l-i-k-e, not love. You never say, “Are you sure you want to eat that?” like some guys I’ve known who have a thing for anorexic model types.

  I lifted my bagel to my mouth but asked before taking a bite, “So, what was it like growing up in England?”

  A
lex released a homesick sigh. “It was a change, but I really liked it. Part of it was finally living in a happy family. But we moved into this ancestral home in the country that looked like a castle, with horses and all this acreage to explore, so that was great. Then I went to boarding school in Oxford and—”

  “Wow. Like Harry Potter?”

  “Minus the wizards and dragons and creepy creatures hiding in the basement,” he said dryly. “Just itchy uniforms, dreadful food, and ridiculous bedtimes. But my family also has an apartment in London, so it was always fun to go down to the city.”

  “Uh, how close is Oxford to London? Aren’t they right next to each other?” Geography had never been my strong suit in school. Math either. But if they’d had a class in film, this movie lover would have made straight As.

  “No, Oxford is a bit northwest of London—about an hour or so by train.”

  “Train? I’ve never been on a train.” I gave a wistful sigh. “Is it as romantic as they show in films? All that swirling steam as they say good-bye, and she runs alongside the departing train as her sweetheart goes off to war. Except in Doctor Zhivago, when Omar Sharif was on the train and saw Lara through the window and tried to get her attention, but she never saw him and he died of a heart attack without her ever knowing. So sad. Although . . . come to think of it—was that a train? Might have been a streetcar.”

  “Wow. You didn’t even take a breath.” Alex shot me an admiring glance. “I never thought of riding the train as particularly romantic.” He winked at me. “We’ll have to take a train trip together one of these days.”

  Like on our honeymoon, maybe?

  Down, happily-ever-after girl, down, my voice of reason commanded.You’ve only been dating a little while. Rein in the romance. He hasn’t even kissed you yet.

  And just why is that exactly? my familiar, neurotic self nagged. Doesn’t he find me attractive?

  My common-sense self stepped up to the romantic plate: Of course he finds you attractive. Hasn’t he told you so?

  But I glanced at Alex just to be sure. I was pretty sure he was giving me more than a “just friends” smile.